


inequalities

by pendules



Series: compare/contrast [4]
Category: Football RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-19
Updated: 2011-02-19
Packaged: 2017-10-15 19:04:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/163981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendules/pseuds/pendules
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Athens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	inequalities

The word faith could mean countless things: the religion thing (and there is a boy, a boy who is his age, but never quite did seem to become a man, on his knees looking towards the heavens, and his face expresses so much more than a t-shirt ever can), or a love thing (blind faith—blind love—and the truth is that there were always three in this relationship: he fell in love with Liverpool, the team, and the town, and the people, and the history, and this was a reminder, of something that was threatening to be lost, to be forgotten—and then, Stevie fell in love with him), or something that can never, ever be explained (something he thinks about every single day; something that never, ever ceases to be amazing—sometimes, Stevie almost cries, again, when he talks about it), but faith is not equal to confidence, and that is not equal to expectation.

Afterwards, they say it's a remarkable achievement. _Two finals in three years._ But did they, did _he_ expect this? It's not a small club, and the match is something legends are made of (and _This is Liverpool Football Club and the expectations are so high_ ), and they've done it already. They have. (He thinks about it _every single day_.)

Confidence is another matter. Sometimes, with this club, it doesn't work very well. (Sometimes, it wants them to doubt it, to question it, to say it can't, so that it will, each and every time, be able to prove them wrong. Sometimes, it relishes being called underdogs ('small club').) The team is good, however, it really is. It's not impossible.

But, then again, nothing is _ever_ impossible. And that's the lifeline of this, this club: in the heart of each and every player, past and present, every fan, there is a flame that never, ever goes out, refuses to. And this, this is that: the faith. From start to end (and beyond—after they lose, and after they won).

 

Kakà speaks to him the day after.

Wants to tell him, _Sheva— Andriy, I'm not a boy anymore; you can't make me feel guilty (not for having this, and not for you—not for loving you); it was your decision, your own fault, what you had to do (but you should have been here, you should have, you should have been with me)._

Two years ago, he was telling him it wasn't his fault. Wasn't his fault that they lost. Nothing was his fault. But everything is now. Everything.

Instead, he makes polite, stiff conversation, so unlike their previous exchange, when Kakà was in an airport, leaving Milan. (And Sheva knows something, everything, has changed. Maybe there's something about winning. He knows it: it makes you braver than you were, so unlike losing; when you lose, you tend to hang on to unnecessary things, unnecessary sentiments, and superfluous hope, because you don't want to change, admit, accept. He, still, doesn't know which one makes you a better person.)

Maybe, he's trying to say, _We didn't need you, I didn't need you. (I don't. I don't need you.)_ But he's (still) not trying to make himself believe it.

He feels weaker than he did two years ago.

 

Two years ago, he was telling him it wasn't his fault. Now, though, there is a strange reversal of roles:

"It's not your fault. It's not anyone's fault."

"I know, Steven." ( _And it's not yours either. But you won't believe that, will you? You never, ever will._ )

"It just...wasn't supposed to happen like this, you know? _Fuck_."

Neither of them is as young as they were then. (But Stevie sees a bit of it, that young, young man—and he was beautiful, he was, and he still is, but in a different way, because he's learnt so much (taught _him_ so much)—who came to Liverpool with expectation in his eyes, expectation that changed to belief as fast as he'd let it. But the expectation is gone now, all of it, but the faith remains. Or he hopes—because there are rumours, rumours that will undoubtedly increase in magnitude, in volume.)

He used to wear his heart of his sleeve (a red, red sleeve, alongside a captain's armband), but he's become more protective of it, cautious, wary (maybe since he let someone into it, truly and wholly).

He lets Xabi hold his hand, for a second or two, and he wraps his arms around his waist, chest against back, face against neck, as they both fall asleep, but maybe it's purely out of obligation at this stage, and maybe it's not enough; maybe it was never enough. Maybe the simple things are wasted on them (him), and maybe this, all of it, didn't matter, not when they were losing, not when they lost.

Maybe, as it started then, two years ago, it was meant to end now, tonight.

(He doesn't think—doesn't consider, _What if we hadn't won? Would it have ever started at all? Would that have been better? Would it have been better to not love you at all than to love you for the wrong reasons?_ )

 

Andriy remembers. Every single thing (he always does). He remembers him, when he wore his heart on his sleeve. He imagines he still does (but people change, they do; Andriy is just a bit stubborn—and thinks, in some way, that if he doesn't, if he stays himself forever, no matter where he is, the world won't either, that everything and everyone will stay how he's left it: that those who love him always will, those who believe in something will always stand by it, for better or worse—and is it this that makes you the best possible person you can be?).

The truth is that he fell in love with something two years ago. Something he thought he had at Milan (he did); something that made him realise that maybe none of this was meant for him, none of it; some kind of bravery he knew he'd never have (the bravery he didn't have to tell Ricky, "there'll be other times," though he wouldn't have believed it himself); words uttered in the face of a camera ( _How can I leave after a night like this?_ ).

Of course, afterwards, there is a slight moment of uncertainty, a wrong step, and Andriy (the world) waits for him to fall, but he doesn't. Maybe it's then he realises that that couldn't be him. Maybe he always falls. A second too late or a second too early.

 

Of course, there _was_ another time. And Kakà is happy—he won't let himself be otherwise—for a day, a week, a month. But not for the fifteen minutes they talk (even though he swears, to him, to himself, that it, _he_ won't take this away from him, and he's saying: _you deserve it, Milan deserves it_ , as if he doesn't—and maybe he _doesn't_ ).

Of course, he lies:

"It was a good game, and in the end, well, we did it. I'm happy."

"Yes, yes."

Kakà wonders if not even getting the chance to win is worse than losing.

The role reversal is not complete, though it should be, it should (it was fate; it was meant to be—parallels, revenge, equality, being equal, taking back what was lost); it's a reversal in every other way, but— ( _He should have_ been _here._ )

He is happy, he is a European Champion, but he is alone. (They're still together, in some way, and he's all alone.)

"Are you leaving?"

"I can't be your Istanbul forever."

(And this is what he hates, this is the reason for any early doubt he had: the way he reads him so well. He's always thought that symbols: medals, or trophies, they aren't able to speak, and it's best that way. They can't tell their story, can't feel glory and triumph; it's left to the winner, the winners, to be so selfish. (And Stevie was selfish, and deaf to any calls on it.) Trophies and prizes aren't supposed to know what you're thinking, what you're feeling, all the time. But, of course, Xabi's neither. He's not a prize (and it feels strange, admitting this to himself, either because it's so stupid, or because he had actually believed, for two years, that it was true)—he's a man. A man who's looking at him intently with even more hurt than he'd shown when he was sitting on a grass pitch (looking as young as he's ever seen him, as much like a boy as he's ever seen him) in a place that still seems so close.

The truth is that: sometimes, people fall in love with nothing. Stevie had fallen in love with everything. And maybe it was time that Xabi didn't have to be _everything_. Maybe, it could be simple. Maybe, he was willing to try.)

"Are you _leaving_?"

"No."

"Okay."

And he decides, then, that he could try; he could try to start over, make it better, make it mean something without over-complicating it (everything). He could, if Xabi would let him. Maybe he wasn't his Istanbul anymore, his prize. But he didn't need him to be.

 

They're in Hong Kong when he starts wondering when he started putting this, them, this team, before everything else.

"We should have won in Japan," Stevie muses.

Xabi laughs, but says, sadly, "Yes, we should have."

"We should have won in Athens too; we played better."

(He'd be worried, if he didn't know; but this is Stevie: after a while, he tries, unsuccessfully or not, to detach himself from it.)

"We did. But they played better last time."

"They—"

"It's _true_."

A pause.

"Yeah, it bloody well is."

Xabi was always the one that could make him want to give up trying. Because it hurts; it's supposed to.

Xabi starts wondering then: when it started hurting him as much as it did Stevie.

 

There is fear, and there is expectation, but in the end, no one leaves.

Sheva watches them win in Yokohama. Watches Kakà score. Watches them happy.

For the only time, he remembers winning with them instead of losing. Winning number six, winning the Scudetto, winning the Ballon d'Or. He didn't win number seven with them, though he _is_ number seven (and he was missing)—but he's felt like it less and less, as if it fades away, like if you wash a jersey too many times, it will start to lose its colour, _change_ its colour (but maybe Sheva never did change from red-and-black to blue; maybe he still has a heart that is half-black)—and he feels it again, completely, feels as much like _il numero sette_ as he'll ever be, and he is, he is again, when he wakes up at 7:22 and thinks he's somewhere else.

Kakà had asked him if he'd return if they did it. But it wouldn't be the same, he knows, it won't ever be.

The rumours will continue, next season, and the one after that, and maybe one day, he'll forget that he made a choice, forget why he made that choice—and then it will not be a matter of choice anymore, but of imperative. And he'll find his way back (and Ricky will be waiting for him, like in his dreams).

 

Stevie knows he's been lucky. (This is, he thinks, one of the things he's learnt from Xabi: this is what he was reminded of. People come from far and wide to fall in love with this place, and he's had it there all his life.) There are, he knows, millions of people who can't do what they love. He does it every single day. You can't choose your home, where you are born, where you are from, who you are, and who your family are, but Stevie would choose this, every single time. He's lucky. He's grateful. He didn't have to leave, didn't have anything more out there for him, never did; this was what it was all about, and this is still what it's all about (and always will be). The world knows there's something special about this place, this club, whether it's because they too love it, or they have been defied by it, someplace at sometime. He didn't have to leave to find what he wanted, didn't have to ask: it simply came to him. Because he knew how to wait (how to not ask for too much, to not have very much expectation, but to always, always, have faith). And he remembers that now, again: how to not ask for too much.

They make love, slow and deliberate, and for the first time, it's not because Stevie wants to relive something, or forget something else, but it's because he wants it—all of it: this, and most of all, him.

It could be simple. He knows it now.

(And this is simplicity, a conversation at six in the morning:

"Do you miss home?"

"I _am_ home."

And there is no more questioning. Time is inconsequential.)

 

No one may be leaving, but Kakà replays it in his mind, over, and over again. But there are two things now. (The first was always there, since there was hesitation, uncertainty, about his future, since his first son was born... The second is strange; he doesn't remember ever even thinking about it. It's as if it was transplanted into his brain, as a series of thoughts, a sequence of events, fully formed, sensible—and he knows he hasn't created this. Not intentionally. But maybe, maybe, forcing him away, like he did that morning, like he has ever since, opened up something that was there all along, something that doesn't like being suppressed. In fact, being suppressed empowers this little feeling, not expectation, but hope. Empowers it to break free and become stronger than ever. This is faith: it thrives under pressure, under a sceptical frown, under a condescending glare, and the word _impossible_.)

One is a departure; the other is an arrival. (Leaving and returning.) One exists as fact; the other is imaginary. One is in past tense; the other is in the future.

The first goes like this: Sheva got married on July 14th. His son was born on October 29th. They lost on May 25th. A year passed, punctuated by doubt, and whispered conversations, and laughter with new friends, and, then, a decision. Sheva left on May 28th.

The second is a rudimentary thing: It was formed, sometime, developed, structured, but the details are imprecise (and, frankly, irrelevant), before May 23rd. Sheva will, at some indistinct point in the future (and there is a possibility he already has), after this date, have doubts again. (The truth is: it's never stopped, the uncertainty; it was supposed to, but never did. But uncertainty needs time: to accumulate, to become an actual force, a _feeling_ , driving him to make a decision. He doesn't know—doesn't know it won't be about decisions anymore. Doesn't know that leaving and returning are as far from each other as they possibly could be.)

Kakà knows about faith, but sometimes, it's hard. Sometimes, you lose, regardless. And they're losing now. They're losing, and now, Kakà finds the will to hold onto something (forever, he says), to hold onto something that he knows can never leave him (or shouldn't be able to; choice should be enough, but sometimes, it isn't, and he doesn't think of this), something that will always be there. Like Andriy wasn't.

(And maybe he does this, because he knows that one day, Andriy will find his way back to him.)

 

There are some things Xabi knows about life, things he's learnt after twenty-six years of it: One is that home, whatever it is, good or bad, is always important. It will be a part of you forever. But it's not everything, far from it, whether you live there all your life, or you leave at eighteen-years-old. There's always more: some other place, either in the mind or on the globe, which is there exactly for you. Or it can be a story (a 116-year-old history), or a sport, a job (but then it won't really be a job), a person... It becomes a little more unclear then. Who is this person? Is it someone you've known your entire life, or does it have to be a stranger at first?

Another thing is that with everyone you meet (or don't meet—people who are there, ready-made, before you were even around), you look for a connection. (In football, it's more pronounced, exaggerated, but it's the same, essentially. Whether it's a mimicked trick in the middle of one of the most important matches of both your lives, or a hug for someone whose team you've just defeated.) This is human nature, and is how the world runs: based on something as fragile and unfounded as emotion. We yearn for love, we protect our own, we look for happiness. And this is the reason for everything we do. Cynics may disagree, may say that everyone does what they have to do to preserve themselves. Xabi still thinks that most people, most of them, are good. There is no obvious reason for all of it, for living, for dying, for wanting to succeed, for wanting to be happy, for wanting to make the world better, but in them, there's still that innate desire. It's what the world is run on, this instinct, this flimsy, baseless emotion, the ability to feel (the fear of suffering, the appeal of happiness) that links all of humanity together.

The last is that love, for something or someone, received or given, is different in every single case. It stems from everything meaning something entirely distinct to every single person, everyone and thing being connected on totally different levels. It can change, perhaps, over time, but it can't go away. It can be denied, hidden, but it grows in the dark as it grows in the light.

("It's for the right reasons."

"The right reasons being...?"

"The man behind the passes, and the sixty-five-yard goals. The one who looks every damn thing up in the dictionary, and hates dirt on his carpet as much as we hate those bloody Bitters."

It's ridiculously dimwitted, and horrifically uncontrived, but this he prefers to any talk of existentialism or the like; this is more than all of that, this doesn't need any more reason than the crude, but purely honest ones he has for him.)

 

Kakà sees him, for a moment, a second, in London, his territory. Eye to eye. As if there were only two of them in the world ( _again_ —Sheva will never forget how it used to be). But he looks like a ghost. (Maybe he is.) Sheva is: a ghost, a memoir of the past, a silhouette without any palpable substance, a shadow of his past self, _déjà vu_ … _Déjà vu_ like it was supposed to be, meant to be. Same circumstances, different outcomes. And he was supposed to be there, and be happy. But there's no going back. (And Sheva was never, ever about going back; he was always about moving forward… and things have changed, so drastically; _he's_ changed. He realises it, now, with Ricky's wide eyes, unmoving, unblinking, on him, on him. For once, he can't run, can't do anything.)

And Ricky says, "I have to go. With my team." ( _For once, I'm going forward, I'm leaving you, and you can't do anything. Because you're a ghost. Stuck in the past. And ghosts can't change. They only have memories; they can't affect anything else. If you stay in this place, you can't—_ )

And Sheva nods. "Yes, you have to." ( _Without me. For now._ )

"Don't…"

"I won't. Not now."

Ricky relaxes.

Then, "Go."

And he does. Without him.

They lose at the San Siro. This time, Sheva lets himself lose with them, but doesn't let himself resent it.

 

Another year, another year, and Xabi chooses club over country; Kakà says it's official (and it's about faith); Sheva wants out (but it's still about choice—and he always falls, sooner or later); Stevie is not scared of anything.

They won't get another chance, a part three, a tie-breaker, this year, but there are others, there will be others. (They know what's important: Xabi knows it when he touches the sign with both hands; Kakà does when he sees his son for the first time; Stevie knows it _every single time_ he stands with his team in front of that crowd; Sheva does when he wonders if he can make up for something, if he can be there the next time, and the next.)


End file.
